Greetings, sweet kittens. It's me, Zara, your digital big sister.
While I love the weekend as much as the next free-wheeling, high-heel-wearing, winged-liner-sporting, booze-swilling, red-lipsticked PARTY GIRL, 99.9 percent of the mistakes I've made in my life have taken place during the weekend. I've spent one too many Mondays spiraling down the dark vortex of weekend guilt, regret and shame.
But hey! Don't fret. Because I'm going to be here every Friday to stop you from the awful weekend f*ck ups that are screwing up your life. Here's this week's Very Important PSA.
Drinking in the sun will lead to the worst sex of your life. Don't do it this Fourth of July weekend.
I know what you're thinking: I'm a smug little bitch who is about to tell you NOT to have sex and that you MUST douse yourself in sunscreen every 30 minutes unless you want to be doomed to a life of untreatable STDs and skin cancer.
While yes, I can be a smug little bitch from time to time, rest assured I'm a sinner just like the rest of you naughty kittens, and I would never, ever tell you to stay away from the sun or from sex or booze. I love sex and I love the sun and I'm really into having hot, steamy sex after a day spent drinking Sauvignon Blanc in the sun.
However, this whole business of sex, sun and day drinks can take a turn in a dark direction, especially during Fourth of July weekend.
Think about it: Pale girls who have spent weeks upon weeks working indoors advancing their up-and-coming careers are suddenly tossed onto a blazingly hot beach. And we pale girls have been so stressed from the harrowing winter and the stressful spring, and GAH, we feel hideous and as white as the underbelly of a goddamn fish.
So we put on our string bikinis, except we don't like the way we look in our string bikinis (even though you should, because you're gorge, babes). We feel pale and bloated, and a general feeling of overall ew-ness follows us around like a toxic ex we can't rid ourselves of. But it's Fourth of July weekend, and it's unpatriotic to wear jeans, so we decide to booze away the insecurities.
Who wants to confront the demon of self-hate when we could just drink and forget, right chica? So we grab magnums of pretty, pink rosé and drink until we forget that we're pissed about our pale bodies.
Then we decide "ah, sunshine!" And it's July, so the sun is angry and hot and will burn a bitch. But we can't feel the ~burn~ because we're drinking, and drinking is the ultimate form of numbing, isn't it, baby?
The sickly sweet global warming sun fries our porcelain skin and sucks the water out of our bodies with its wicked prowess. And, of course, we haven't replenished the lost water because we're drinking, and who the fuck remembers to drink water when they're boozing except for like bitches like Gwyneth Paltrow who is so boring and sexless anyway?
Yeah, screw Gwyneth Paltrow and her perfection. It's Fourth of July and the sky is about to explode into beautiful patterns of twinkling stars, and it will be so fucking dark, but the fireworks will only light up the whites of our eyes and no one will be able to see our raw, red, sunburnt bodies, right?
Then the fireworks will be over, and we'll be on the verge of a blackout, but still high from the booze and the patriotism. We'll be dancing on the beach with some chick if you're a lesbian like me, or some dude if you're straight like my girl Sheena, grinding our lives away like there is no such thing as New York City and subways and work.
As we giggle, we'll end up with some girl or some boy in our bed in our little rented apartment, and we'll start kissing, our hair still wet from salt water, and the kissing will quickly turn into intensely sexual kissing, which will quickly turn into S-E-X.
That's when everything goes downhill.
See, having sex when you're drunk with a sunburn will only lead to bad things. First of all, your skin is too damn raw for all that heavy petting. As soon as things get passionate, your skin will feel like it's on fire and instantly start peeling all over the bed. And if you're both peeling, you will leave the bed like it's a crime scene, just dry bits of skin all over the damn place, caught up in the cotton sheets.
Also, you will be twice as drunk as usual, and your drunk goggles will be strapped to your head, so you will probably wake up to find the person you're screwing was either an ex you promised to never revisit, a friend's significant other or a horrible frat boy Republican (or a mean, controlling, right-wing lesbian). You will immediately be filled with fear that you DIDN'T USE PROTECTION, which means the rest of your holiday weekend will be spend Googling STD clinics on the Jersey Shore.
That's no way to vacation, kittens.
So don't do it. I'm not saying don't drink. I'm not saying don't have the best salacious sexcapade of your entire life. I'm not saying don't get a bit of a taaaan, girl. We all love a bit of a tan (I used self tanner for the first time last night, and I gotta say, I feel pretty hot, despite the fact that I smell like rotting oranges).
I'm just telling you to throw on a bit of the ol' sunscreen, pace yourself and wrap it up (the dick or dildo).
But really, what I'm trying to tell you is this: You look great in that string bikini, babe. Own it. You're not fat. Pale skin is beautiful -- all skin tones are beautiful. The biggest mistakes in my life come when I'm drinking because I feel ugly and insecure.
That's the root of this Fourth of July bad sex black out epidemic: self-esteem. But instead of resorting to self-hatred, take a long, hard look in the mirror and say: I LOOK HOT. Proudly strut to the beach and the rest of the pieces will fall into place.
Need a little word of encouragement? I'm here for you all weekend. Message me on Facebook, kitten. I'll give you a pep talk because I'm your lesbian big sis and you're under my big sis protective wing now.
If you feel insecure and aren't around a computer/phone, just visualize me at the beach. I'm wearing a really flamboyant cut-out one piece with Swarovski crystals or some other flashy shit. I'm drinking a white wine spritzer, but oddly pulling it off and making that trashy drink look chic, and I'm staring at you from behind massive Fendi, gold-gilded aviators, and I'm saying, "You look hot as hell, girl."